the door.
Harry knocked. “Who is it?” he heard him call.
Taking a gamble, Harry shouted, “Banks!”
The door swung open. Harry shoved Jonathan backwards into his flat. The young man stumbled and fell on the floor. Harry pulled him up by the lapels and thrust him into an armchair.
“Now,” he said, “before I ruin that pretty face of yours for life, you will tell me who paid you to entrap Sir Peter Petrey.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Harry jerked him out of the chair and drew back his fist.
“No!” screamed Jonathan. “I’ll tell you. They said it was just a prank. I was to pretend to bump into him. Then we arranged to go to Oxford, so they said they would book a hotel and gave me the name. They also gave me a leather mask. They said I was to put it on and say in a loud voice something about having the mask on and then they would do the rest.”
“And just who are ‘they’?”
Jonathan hung his head. “Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks,” he whispered. Then he began to cry, saying between his sobs, “Don’t hurt me.”
“You gave me what I wanted. Now, a word of advice. You will forget this ever happened or I will come looking for you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Y-yes.”
“I suggest you find yourself a protector and get out of that brothel or you will look like a diseased old man by the time you are thirty. Good night!”
“Wait! Where is Peter?”
“None of your business.”
Harry began to walk until he managed to hail a cab and directed the driver to Cyril’s address.
Once there, he paid off the cab and waited until the driver had driven off. Then he took out his lock picks and unlocked the front door.
He made his way silently up the thickly carpeted stairs, opening one door after another until he found Cyril’s bedroom. He lit the gas and stood and looked down at the sleeping Cyril. He had a sudden impulse to drive his fist into Cyril’s face but restrained himself. He looked around the room. There was a laudanum bottle on the bedside table with a spoon beside it. Cyril lay in a drugged sleep.
Harry was sure Cyril would have hidden any negative close to him. There was a safe in the corner, an old one which opened with a key rather than a combination. On a console table lay a bunch of keys. Harry picked them up and tried them until he found the key that opened the safe.
Inside he found a Kodak camera. He peered at the small film window, but saw nothing there. The film had already been removed and the camera was empty. He searched in the safe again and found an envelope with the negative and one print. He stuffed them into his inside coat pocket and locked the safe.
He then walked to Charles Street and gave his special knock at the door. Again Peter answered it. He was fully dressed and his face showed the mark of tears.
“I have a photograph and the negative,” said Harry.
“Oh, thank God! Who did this to me?”
“Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow.”
“But why? Why me?”
“As I told you in my office, I think the intention was to get Lady Rose to break off your engagement. I suggest you rouse your man and pack. Leave tomorrow. Where will you go?”
“The south of France, where I am supposed to be.”
“Stay there a few months and this will all blow over. Hadfield is not going to talk.”
“What about Berrow and Banks?”
“You need not fear them. I will deal with them.”
Jonathan awoke after an uneasy sleep. He dressed and glanced down at the street. Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks had just turned the corner and were heading in the direction of the house where he lived. Cyril had found the photograph and negative gone and knew that Jonathan must have talked.
Jonathan let out a squawk of terror.
The doorbell jangled furiously. Jonathan began to pack a bag. He kept glancing fearfully out of the window until he saw them walk away.
He darted down the stairs, carrying his bag, and called a cab. “Charles Street,” he said.
Peter walked out to his carriage. It was later in the morning than he had intended to leave, but sheer relief had made him fall into a deep sleep. The carriage was loaded with his luggage.
He had one foot on the step when he heard a voice shout, “Peter! Wait!”
Peter stared as Jonathan hurtled towards him.
“You little bastard,” hissed Peter. He started to climb into the carriage.
“They told me it was only a prank,” said Jonathan, tears running down his face. “They are going to kill me. Take me with you.”
“I am going to the south of France to forget about the whole sordid business.”
Peter climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof with his cane. The carriage lurched forward. Jonathan jumped on the backstrap.
Twisting round, Peter saw the youth’s anguished face through the back window.
He turned away in disgust.
When the hansom stopped in the forecourt of Charing Cross Station, where Peter was booked on the Dover train, he told his manservant, “Get a porter. Now, you,” he said, glaring at Jonathan, “run along.”
“Take me with you. I’ll do anything. I hate the life here. Please.”
In his anger and distress, Peter could not help noticing that tears did not mar or blotch the beauty of that face. He decided to pretend that Jonathan did not exist.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he was finally settled by his manservant in a first-class compartment. “Take care of the house when I am gone,” said Peter.
Just as the train began to move forwards out of the station, the carriage door opened and Jonathan tumbled in.
“What am I to do?” demanded the furious Peter. “I cannot call the guard in case you shame me further.”
“I thought it was a joke. I never expected to like you so much. I’m frightened,” said Jonathan.
Peter raised a newspaper and pretended to read. After several miles, the quiet sobbing opposite melted him a little.
“Luncheon is served,” called a waiter.
Peter sighed and lowered the newspaper. “Dry your eyes. We may as well eat.”
Rose wondered what on earth was going on. “If only we could get to the captain’s office,” she said to Daisy.
“We could simply say we were going for a walk,” said Daisy.
“At the moment we are not allowed out of the house.”
“I’ll watch by the window and see whether my lord and my lady go out. My lord goes to his club most days.” Daisy took up a position by the window.
After quarter of an hour, she said, “There he goes. Now we need to wait for Lady Polly.”
The day dragged on. Rose read while Daisy kept watch. “Lady Polly has just left,” she exclaimed.
Rose put down her book. “How do we get past the servants?”
“They’ll be taking afternoon tea,” said Daisy. “If we hurry, we should get out unnoticed.”
“What about coming back?”
“Let’s worry about that later. We’ll go to Chelsea. He may have finished work by the time we get there.”
At Harry’s Chelsea home, Daisy bit back an exclamation of disappointment as Phil opened the door to them.
“Is Captain Cathcart at home?” asked Rose.
“I am expecting him at any moment.”
Rose handed him her card. “We will wait.”
